


Sleigh Me Now

by unwinding_fantasy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Humor, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Dorks in Love, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ignoct Secret Santa, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Romance, Teen Romance, Teenagers, brotherhood era, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwinding_fantasy/pseuds/unwinding_fantasy
Summary: Ignis knew Noct would be the death of him. He just didn't know it'd be via something as innocuous as a pun. (Or, more accurately, Noct and Ignis and Crystalmas throughout the years.)





	Sleigh Me Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kickcows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickcows/gifts).



> Written for [kickcows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickcows/pseuds/kickcows) / [heartlessfujoshi](http://heartlessfujoshi.tumblr.com/) for the Ignoct Secret Santa 2k18. Merry Christmas! Sorry it's a little late but I hope you enjoy!

Pounding feet echo down the hallway. Ignis, secreted beneath a servant’s staircase far away from any obnoxious twinkling lights and roasting chestnuts, glances up to see Prince Noctis skid around the corner like the Infernian’s on his heels. His toes wriggle beneath his white-socked feet, a stark contrast to his tuxedo, in desperate need of adjustment if the length of the arms are anything to go by. A new outfit for the impending Crystalmas Ball then. Ignis notes his page number and closes his algebra textbook.

The thin voice of the tailor echoes down the hallway. “Highness, please!”

The soft laugh from the prince does little to quell Ignis’ racing heart. Should he bow? Certainly, he knows Noctis – a scheduled play date here, a shared lesson there – but they’re only acquaintances at best. Moreover, Noctis is heir to the throne. Ignis is just the reedy nerd whose peers act like he’s got a permanent case of the cockatrice pox.

Noctis’ eyes flick to Ignis, who catches the wild joy in their stormy depths, and he can’t help it: a smile tugs at his mouth. Ignis is barely out of his seat when a warm hand bumps him backwards. Noctis squeezes in next to him and hefts the book so they’re both hidden from view.

“Noctis?” It‘s never  _Highness_ ; Noctis hates being reminded of his station.

Noctis lays his palm over Ignis’ mouth. Cinnamon and ginger.  _He’s been stealing sweets again,_  Ignis thinks. The prince’s penchant for desserts is practically Insomnian legend.

The footsteps intensify. He feels Noctis draw in a breath, hold it...

The noise subsides. A sigh rushes out of Ignis, along with all his coiled tension.

“It’s Noct,” Noctis insists. He directs a disapproving glance at the algebra textbook and shoves it aside, eyes crinkling at the corners as he flashes a triumphant grin. “You’ve gotta call me Noct now. Near death experience and all.”

Ignis ducks his head, shuffles a respectable distance away. Fiddles with his glasses. He’s normally so collected but something about the prince throws him off-kilter. Always, Prince Noctis is the one trying to cross that invisible dividing line between Ignis and the rest of the world, the line drawn in flawless etiquette and cards-held-close and advanced mathematics.

Noctis ruins things by scooting over. “Whatcha doing?” he asks as he casts a dubious look at the textbook.

“Studying.”

“Laaame.”

According to Ignis’ parents, it’s necessary if he’s going to sit on Noctis’ Council one day. Ignis doesn’t bother explaining that though. “And I suppose you were undertaking a more worthy endeavour?”

“Uh-huh.” Noctis flexes his feet. “Ice-skating! Or, well, pretend ice-skating. The ballroom’s a pretty good frozen lake when it’s freshly waxed.” He picks at a bit of fluff on his cuff and adds, “I was meant to go skating for real with Dad, but he’s busy again so.” He fidgets and bites his lower lip, disappointment palpable, and Ignis thinks about how funny it is that some kids actually like spending time with their parents.

He doesn’t understand but Noctis looks so utterly miserable that Ignis can’t stop himself: “If it’s companionship you’re seeking, perhaps you’d like to read with me?”

Noctis pulls a face. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go skating! You know how, right? You look like you know everything.”

Abscond? Preposterous! If Ignis’ parents were here, they would say playing is for unruly children with bottom-dwelling IQ’s. They would brand the prince a bad influence. They’d instruct Ignis to keep his and Noctis’ relationship strictly professional, to ignore the way Noctis is clasping his hands behind his head, now bouncing on his feet, now smiling with more teeth than would be considered proper.

“I have... responsibilities.”

“Better to ask forgiveness." Ignis' frown deepens; Noct huffs. "Okay, well, this is my Crystalmas gift to you--” He flaps his hands in a vaguely hocus-pocusy fashion. “Ta-da! No more studying for the rest of the day!”

Ignis opens his mouth. Closes it. It’s at this precise moment that he realises what he wants and what his parents want are no longer in alignment.

“Very well,” Ignis says.

* * *

Noct's less a complex equation, more an open book. Always thirsty for knowledge, Ignis subconsciously learns much about the prince, least of all how adept he is at ice-skating. As it happens, Noct's skilled at everything from singing to swimming to gaming. Far and above though, his specialty is Crystalmas, a niche field of study that leaves Ignis smiling private smiles. Noct's joy is just so _catchy,_ whether he's swiping fresh baked goods from the kitchens with the deft precision of an Altissian artisan or decorating the tree in the lobby, and the ballroom, and the private dining hall. Against his better judgement, Ignis finds himself enjoying the holiday, all his haughty defences crumbling under Noct's relentless cheer. If his parents ever complain, Ignis simply says Prince Noctis needs him, and they wouldn’t have him snub a royal decree, would they?

Noct goes nuts for light displays too, commanding his chauffeur to drive him through Insomnia’s backstreets and winding boulevards even though it's past the prince's bedtime. Personal space, a foreign concept for Noct, scrambling from one side of the car to the other and frequently winding up in Ignis' lap, nose pressed to the window as he emits little gasps of wonder when they roll past a particularly extravagant display. 

"Really, Noct," Ignis protests around the candy cane Noct's force fed him. He's given up chiding him about his lack of a seat belt.

Noct's breath fogs the glass. He draws two circles, one messy haired and the other spectacled. A plus sign in between. Twin smiles.

Noct glances sidelong at Ignis. "You free tonight? Dad and me are gonna sing carols. Well, I'll be singing. He'll be on the piano – you know, the old one in his room? Used to be my mother's. Anyway, it'd be more fun if you did the harmonies.”

What Noct’s describing sounds suspiciously like a father-son activity. A family thing, and Ignis has zero experience in such matters. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says in a carefully neutral tone.

"Is that code for 'I suck at singing'?"

He shies from Noct's expectant gaze, winds down the window for fresh air. The wintry blast hits him smack on the cheeks and he thinks about the probability of a gigantic snowball sailing through and taking him out. It's preferable to the inevitable question he sees plain on Noct's face. Ignis really doesn’t want to explain that his parents are Crystalmas killjoys who regard Ignis more as an accessory than a son.

But in a great display of restraint, Noct just shakes his head a little. What he says makes Ignis’ heart trip: "Best friends are allowed too."

The invisible dividing line between them shimmers and scatters.

"Very well," Ignis says. 

* * *

Then the Marilith and the Empire unbalance their perfect equation.

War crimes have stolen Noct’s ability to smile, his belief in his right to happiness smothered by the wicked cut of MTs and the  _ra-tat-tat-tat_  of automatic rifles. This Noct is a shadow of his former self, so much so that if Ignis didn't know better he'd suspect some imposter had returned in the prince's stead. The Noctis he knew would never leave still-wrapped video games on the counter or grumble about snowfall or turn up his nose at gingerbread. Noct can't sit through his lessons; he can't sleep through the night. He cries when he thinks nobody's looking (but Ignis always notices. How could he not?) 

King Regis cries too, if Ignis correctly judges the sleepless shadows under his eyes, but it's the kind of crying you do by yourself or not at all. Ignis understands. Emotion clouds logic, his parents always say, a death knell for somebody aspiring to the future king's Council. Ignis learned to swallow sorrow before he could string together a sentence. The king tries all sorts of tactics to bring Noct back to himself, including moving the beloved piano from his chambers into Noct’s, but even that doesn’t lift the prince’s spirits.

By end of year, Noct's an advanced problem that Ignis can't solve no matter how many tricks he employs. The dividing wall’s back, this time with reinforced steel and barbed wire. Once, Noct had deconstructed that divide for Ignis. Now, it’s Ignis’ turn.

He checks out every Crystalmas book in the library. He scours the popular social media websites for the latest festive trends. He researches different desserts considering Noct’s decided traditional spices are gross, and winds up spending the entirety of November practising triple layered trifles and plum puddings and frosting-laden fruitcake.

“You’re gonna make me fat,” the Amicitia boy complains, poking through today’s efforts: shortbread men. Brutally, he chomps into one, severing its head.

“Don’t pretend you’re an unwilling participant, Gladiolus.” Ignis needed a non-biased test subject and the Six sent this eating machine.

The Shield-in-training just laughs, pops three rum balls in his mouth. Approximately one point four seconds later his expression twists, scandalised. “Hey, are these  _virgin?”_

By Crystalmas Eve, Ignis is done fretting about nine-year-old Gladiolus’ implied drinking habits and is instead utterly preoccupied with lifting Noct’s spirits. Once he’s certain Noct’s stuck at the annual ball, he heads to the royal living quarters where the Crownsguard patrolling the passageways, accustomed to Ignis running all manner of random errands for the prince, only seem mildly perplexed by the enormous suitcase of supplies he lugs inside Noct’s rooms. The messy space is devoid of all Crystalmas cheer and for a split second, Ignis wonders,  _Is this the right thing to do?_

A younger Noct’s first-to-smile face flashes through Ignis’ mind.

“Better to ask forgiveness,” he mutters to himself, an old mantra gleaned from Noct and his countless shirked duties. He never did heed Ignis’ work first, play later mentality. “I’m sure you’d approve.”

He starts by stringing snowflake-shaped lights around Noct’s bedhead. Next, woodland scented candles, placed in strategic positions for maximum immersive effect. He dangles stockings from the mantle and fills a bowl with candy canes for TV snacks, which he leaves within easy reach on the coffee table. He even manages to sneak in a real pine tree courtesy of an extremely confused Marshal Leonis, who also helps with the higher decorations and winds up covered in glitter dust from the ornaments for his trouble.

The Marshal takes his leave. Ignis waits.

The anticipation has him crawling out of his skin. Each minute drags by, Adamantoise-slow and cumbersome. Finally, the beep of a keycard sends Ignis’ heart rate spiking.

Noct’s backpack hits the floor with a dull  _thwunk_. From the way he’s gaping, it’s a miracle his jaw doesn’t do the same. “What...” He finds Ignis perched on the piano stool, considering. Noct doesn’t say anything more though, instead prowling through the rooms, flicking the snowflake lights on and off, fingers tracing over the hanging stockings. When he reaches the tree, he breathes in the crisp scent, a reminder of a world beyond these walls, beyond Noct’s own troubled mind.

His darkened gaze lands on the older boy. “Iggy, did you do all this?”

Ignis swallows. Nods. “Of late, you’ve been – preoccupied, but I know how much Crystalmas means to you so...” He gestures vaguely, feeling more foolish by the moment.

For a long time, Noct is quiet. His jaw visibly tightens, and a maelstrom builds deep in eyes, the urge to lash out simmering beneath layers of trauma and hurt.

And just like that, it fades. “Thanks,” he murmurs, so soft Ignis almost doesn’t catch it.

Ignis’ fingers glide over the keys, movements he’s practised every day for the last month despite his fluid mechanics final. The opening measure of Noct’s favourite carol, gentle and sweet, rings true throughout the warm room. Ignis is rewarded with a quick intake of breath that could be the beginnings of tears but then Noct’s shuffling in beside him, finding the notes for the harmony. When they reach the end, Noct swivels Ignis' way and, tentative as new sunbeams, asks, “Mind if we keep playing?”

Ignis’ heart surges with the joy of equilibrium restored. 

* * *

Over the years, the festive season scoops out a special place in their hearts. Noct-and-Ignis, now well known as a package deal around the Citadel, swap songs and trade gifts, first following tradition then following their hearts, sometimes the silly over the sentimental, the poignant over the practical. From Noct, there’s a collection of vouchers for things like  _one trip to a museum expo of your choice_  and  _one meal where I’ll eat ~~all~~ some of my vegetables_. From Ignis, there’s a telescope and a promise of stargazing outside the city limits some day, even if the Crownsguard don’t approve.

Sixteen and still engaged in snowball warfare, Noct and Ignis versus Gladio and Prompto. Gladio’s bulk renders him an easy target whenever he hurtles packed snow at Noct’s face (Ignis suspects he’s less concerned about taking hits, more interested in pummelling the prince.) A surprising crack shot, Prompto makes up for Gladio’s overzealous attitude with projectiles that find their mark time and time again no matter how stealthy Ignis thinks he’s being. Truly, Prompto has some kind of sixth sense when it comes to detecting danger.

“That all you got, Princess?” Gladio’s chortling as Noct and Ignis take refuge behind a snow bank.

“I’m just getting warmed up!” Noct returns, eyes sparkling with challenge. To Ignis: “He’s only winning ‘cos of Prom. We gotta take him out. Ideas?”

“Perhaps, though the legality of such a tactic is hazy at best.”

Noct grins, mischief personified. “I’m all ears.”

Moments later, there are enough snowballs amassed between them to take down the Niflheim Empire. Noct looks equal parts mystified and impressed. “When you said not to look too closely at this stuff, I thought it was a present or something,” he admits, assessing the pile of snowy ammunition he’s retrieved from the Armiger. “Never expected you were plotting to cheat all along.”

Ignis goes to push up his glasses, recalls he removed them for this battle. “It’s not  _cheating_ , per se...”

“Specs, chill. I actually kinda like it when you fight dirty. All-out assault on my count. Ready? One, two—“

They leap up on _three_ andNoct promptly cops a snowball to the face. He tumbles back and lands gracelessly in the snow, groaning like a dying garula. In the background, Prompto’s exclaiming, “I did it? I did it!” while Gladio cackles like a loon.

“Noct!" Ignis slides over, placing both hands on Noct’s shoulders to inspect the damage. "Are you okay?” 

Noct’s chest's moving like he’s hyperventilating. There’s a dreadful moment where Ignis calculates how long it would take to get to the Royal Insomnian given the snowfall yesterday but then he realises Noct’s just laughing that hard, happier than Ignis has ever seen him, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. Ignis breathes a relieved sigh as Noct laughs away. Icy flecks powder the prince’s midnight hair. His cheeks are rosy from both cold and exertion, doubly so thanks to his otherwise pale complexion, and his eyes sparkle like light refracted off snowflakes. 

_He’s beautiful_ , Ignis realises, the kind of eureka moment ordinarily reserved for solving a particularly vexing math problem.

“I’m totally blaming you for that,” Noct wheezes.

Ignis tells his sudden surge of awkwardness to bugger off. So Noct's a handsome young man. It shouldn't change a thing. Still, when Ignis apologises, he can't help stuttering over the syllables.

Noct just says, “Don’t sweat it.”

Which is easier said than done really. There’s no instruction manual for what to do when you suddenly discover your best friend slash boss is Hot so Ignis spends the next couple of years sweating it, both figuratively and literally. It’s permissable, Ignis tells himself from the confines of his shower, if only because he can’t risk embarrassing himself in front of Noct courtesy of an overactive endocrine system. So he takes care of the practicals. Never mind that he feels miserable immediately afterwards. And if he ever catches Noct looking at him a litttle too long, a lingering touch here or there, Ignis resolutely ignores it, convinced his own bias is tricking him into seeing what he wants to see.

It’s not an impossible problem so much as one Ignis daren’t solve. Too many unknown factors and all.

Crystalmas Eve, Noct plus Ignis, eighteen and invincible.

“Are you done yet?” Noct asks – whines, really. He’s sprawled upside-down on the couch, knees hooked over the top, legs dangling over the back. Ignis would reprimand his poor posture but he’s been finalising reports all afternoon, desperate to get ahead and indulge a little at the ball tonight, so he doesn’t have the energy to be annoyed. His leniency has nothing to do with the fact that Noct’s ugly Crystalmas sweater has bunched under him, exposing the beginnings of a well-toned stomach. Absolutely nothing.

Ignis clears his throat. “Not long to go now.” 

“You said that ages ago,” Noct pouts, and really, anyone would be forgiven for thinking he’s being alluring on purpose.

Ignis rubs the bridge of his nose. Gods, he’s going cross-eyed here. “I’m sorry this is tedious. Perhaps you could accompany Prompto on his eleventh hour shopping spree? I’ll catch up once I’m done.”  _The Argentum-pocalypse,_  Prompto had declared after his notoriously flighty extended family decided that they did, in fact, want to spend Crystalmas with Prompto and his parents, meaning Prompto had to come up with a dozen gifts in a handful of hours. Ignis had almost had a secondhand heart attack just witnessing the ensuing freak out. At the very least, it granted Ignis a new appreciation for families like his own who just counted Crystalmas as any other day of the year.

Noct says, "Sounds like a plan. Can I take the car though? Might be easier if Prom’s got heaps of stuff.”

“Of course. Do be careful in the holiday traffic. I believe Prompto was heading for the shopping complex near your old school, in which case you should be able to find a park at the art gallery between 42nd and King’s Way.”

Noct reaches over, fishes in Ignis’ jacket pocket. Ignis tries to breathe like a normal human being. Thankfully, the torture only lasts a few seconds before Noct levers himself off the couch, expertly twirling the keys. “Thanks, Specs. You’re the best.”

Ignis ignore the tiny thrill at those words. “Yes, well,” he bumbles, uncomfortably aware of how close Noct is standing behind him, probably checking how much more paperwork Ignis has to slog through. Noct’s breath puffs at the little hairs at the nape of Ignis’ neck and he makes a considering sound, which flings Ignis’ mind somewhere completely inappropriate and Astrals above, could Noct justrestrain himself?

It happens so fast Ignis is sure he hallucinates it. Noct leans over his shoulder and, cactuar-quick, presses dry lips to the spot just below Ignis’ ear.

“Noct,” Ignis mutters in a way that can only be described as strangled.

And the tension’s shattered by a Ramuh-almighty crash.

Noct springs away as if stung. Ignis too leaps to his feet, sees Prompto and Gladio in the doorway surrounded by baubles and candles and quickly-unrolling wrapping paper, reams of trinkets that had probably been piled in their arms until a moment ago. Prompto emits a high-frequency noise that could probably summon chocobos. “Oh. My.  _Gods._ Oh my gods, you guys!”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Ignis tries, a ridiculous bluff considering he and Noct appear to be engaged in a blushing contest. Cause of death: extreme embarrassment. That’s what they’re going to tell the coroner when they retrieve the bodies of the prince and his adviser.

“No shit,” Gladio says, all massive smiles, Prompto doing some weird happy jig around him. “You call that a kiss? From where I’m standin’, looked more like a cop out.”

Noct scrubs a hand over his face. “Give me a break, asshole.”

“If you’re breaking assholes, you’re doing it wrong.”

Ignis chokes on air. Prompto face-plants into a pile of ribbons.

For his part, Noct just glowers at his insolent Shield. Then, without meeting Ignis' eyes, he grabs Ignis by the collar and drags him in for a proper kiss.

Ignis’ world distills into too much teeth and tongue, the heady taste of peppermint, insistent hands tugging at his hair, some random thought about censorship laws versus public displays of affection. Vaguely, he’s aware of Gladio wolf-whistling, of Prompto squeaking, “My virgin eyes!” Mostly, he’s aware of Noct’s warm body pressed against his and the way he fits himself to Ignis like a custom make. All Ignis’ fantasies haven’t prepared him for how wonderful and different and utterly  _Noct_ this moment is.

Like he’s afraid to let reality rush back in, Noct slows down oh so gradually. Ignis, unresponsive this entire time, attempts to reorganise his brain, currently a tangled mess like forgotten Crystalmas lights long buried in someone’s cupboard. There’s so much to consider: their stations, their responsibilities, the expectations of the rest of the world. All things Ignis has obsessed over a hundred thousand times, only to come back to the same hopeless truth: he is in love with Noctis and will always follow his lead.

So he just settles on, "Are you certain?" 

Noct rolls his eyes but he's beaming brighter than freshly fallen snow. "Course I am. Now, is that a candy cane in your pocket or—”

A kiss, Ignis decides, is an entirely appropriate means of hushing outrageous princes.


End file.
